


Left Colorless

by Dwimpala221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimpala221b/pseuds/Dwimpala221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years, left alone, the color disappeared. John can hardly remember the color of the genius's eyes anymore. He's in black and white, even in John's inebriated hallucinations. He left. He jumped. John is alone again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drunken Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is a Post Richenbach Fanfiction with flashbacks to Sherlock's time away. There will be scenes with graphic violence and other triggers, just to warn you. I hope you all enjoy!

The case that led to the call that led to the jump, now it was time for a new chapter. A lonely, inebriated one. Caused by the fact that the one, the only consulting detective decided to jump off of a bloody building to his death. The call that very scene that stopped John Watson's very world, he hasn't done much with it since then. 

Two years, 

John sat down in his chair, staring across from him at the chair. He brought the bottle in his hand up to his lips, taking a swig of bourbon. All of this in attempt to bring him back. Even if he was colorless, wordless, and motionless, John still wanted him back in his spot.

John took another sip, then another until the tall, slender figure was back in its proper spot. Hands steepled ever so perfectly under its chin, curls falling beautifully on its head. Even though the features were hardly readable, John knew it was him, well not really him but still, oddly enough, him.

John sighed, leaning forward in his chair, eyeing the colorless man. He was happy to see the figure yet extremely sad, knowing that it was just another hallucination. 

So many times in the past had John seen this figure. So elegantly sat there, the blond had so many memories from his encounters with the grey figure. So many drunken memories that kept him sane, even when he felt insane. 

These encounters became a daily thing. Every day John got out of bed, took aspirin, got showered and dressed, made his way to the cemetery, begged him to stop being dead, came home, tried to write on his blog (with no prevail), and got drunk again. This was his daily routine. He hardly spoke to Mrs. Hudson. Nothing mattered to him anymore. He didn't have anything, nothing to strive for. He didn't feel the need to impress him or keep him entertained and under control. 

He had nothing.

The next night, the marker of exactly two years since it happened, something different happened.


	2. At High Stakes

The next day dragged on, nothing new, everything just the same. The stagnant air hanging thickly, the curtains drawn closed, blocking out the harsh light from the outdoors. Everywhere, there'd be a thick layer of dust, nothing had moved for about a year, nothing other than the alcohol and small glasses. Even John's laptop had a slightly thinner layer of dust, John had just given up.

The first year of his absence, John tried cleaning, constantly, to try to fill the void, it never worked. He gave up on his blog, he'd started seeing his therapist again, not even that worked anymore. There was nothing in this world that could make up for the emptiness John felt.

As night fell, the room became colder, the fall breeze blowing into the flat through the open window. John decided it was time to down some whiskey to bring the consulting detective back.

John stood up and went to the kitchen, he downed two shots of Fireball Whiskey. He proceeded to go back to the living room with the bottle in his hand. He sat down and took a gulp of the alcohol. 

There was a knock at the door. 

"Ms. Hudson!" John called down so she'd open the door. There was no response. He remembered that Ms. Hudson was out to his sisters for the weekend. 

John sighed and stood up, trudging downstairs after grabbing his gun. He never trusted anyone, not anymore. Once he hit the bottom of the stairs, he went over to the door and cracked it open. 

Standing there on the other side was a tall silhouette of a man, features unreadable due to the bright street lights behind. John furrowed his brow and opened the door a bit more so he could move to the side to get a better look at the mans features. 

Though colors hardly there, the high cheekbones and bow-shaped lips were prominent. A long trench coat, collar flipped up and scarf tied around his neck. 

'No. It can't be..' John thought to himself, his jaw dropping. He opened the door fully. 

"Hello John," a deep, hoarse voice, projecting from the man at the door.


	3. Mycroft's Demand

John jumped back at the sound, quickly pointing his gun. 'Hallucinations don't speak, they don't knock, who is this?!' John thought frantically to himself. The whiskey hadn't been enough to bring John to such an intoxicated state to lose himself and bring the man back. He'd only had a little over three shots. 

The mysterious man in the doorway put his hands up defensively and in surrender, the coat dropped off his left shoulder. 

'Skinny, too skinny', John thought to himself. 'I can take him'. 

"Identification," John commanded, not lowering his gun. 

"I-I can't...my wallet...it's gone," the voice crocked. 

"Who are you?" John growled as an alternative. 

"It's me John, please," the man begged quietly. 

"I don't know who me is! I asked who are you?!" John's voice dropped into a lower register, going into his militaristic original. 

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," the voice struggled out, breaking into a hacking cough. "Call Mycroft if you must," the man said in a low, broken whisper. 

John let out a hearty, disbelieving laugh, "Sherlock Holmes is dead." He said grimly, no matter how much he wanted to believe that Sherlock was alive, he wasn't. He couldn't be. The fall, it haunted him, it was all too real, there's no way it could be fake. 

The supposed Sherlock slowly reached into his pocket to take out his phone. John's grip on the gun tightened, he moved his finger to the trigger, ready to shoot.

"Just calling Mycroft Holmes, to prove to you," the man said hesitantly. He dialed a number quickly as he saw John's knuckles go white from holding the gun too tightly. 

The phone rang twice before there was an answer, "Mycroft Holmes speaking," the voice said through the phone that the caller put onto speaker. 

"Brother mine, hello," the voice of the so called 'Sherlock' replied. 

"Ahh, yes, brother dear, I'm assuming you've made it back to Baker Street. Is your colleague filled with joy or hatred?" 

John's face fell, 'no, it can't be...can it? Of course not! It's been too long!' He thought, watching the lit up phone with disbelief. 

"That's why I'm calling, I'm at gun point and my wallet is in your office, so I can't prove my identity."

Mycroft sighed on the other line, "let me talk to Doctor Watson." Sherlock's hand slowly outstretched towards John, handing the phone over. 

John took it swiftly, keeping the man at gun point, "Mycroft?" He asked slowly. 

"Yes, now, take your gun off my brother and let him in," that would normally be a request, but Mycroft's voice said it as an order.

John lowered his gun hesitantly and stepped aside, eying the man that stepped inside. He hadn't believed it was Mycroft. It had to be a dream, but as soon as John saw the man's face, he knew it was actually Sherlock, he couldn't promise Sherlock was real, but it was Sherlock.

The gun slipped from his hand as well as Sherlock's phone and his hands shot to cover his mouth with a gasp. 

Sherlock eyed his companion closely, kicking away the gun quickly and grabbing his phone, "thank you brother mine," he said quickly in his broken voice before sliding his phone away. 

John on the other hand, grew increasingly angry and he cussed up a storm, putting emphasis on each of them. 

"What the fuck?! You're such an arrogant bastard, you know that?! You're such a dick! You can't just fucking disappear like that and then rea-fucking-ppear like this and expect everything to be okay!" John shouted at the top of his lungs, grabbing the collar of Sherlock's shirt and shoving his already weakened body against the wall causing the Consulting Detective to collapse to the floor with a yelp of pain.


End file.
